


Let Me Mold You (be my Saint, I’ll be your God)

by happyg_rl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_kinkfest, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Exhibitionism, F/M, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Content, agalmatophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyg_rl/pseuds/happyg_rl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crush became obsession. Obsession became desperation. Desperation led him to a different desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Mold You (be my Saint, I’ll be your God)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the community HP Kinkfest on livejournal. 
> 
> Title: Let Me Mold You (be my Saint, I’ll be your God)  
> Author: happyg_rl  
> Prompt Number: AMG4 for rzzmg  
> Kink Showcased: Agalmatophilia  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Ginny... but more like Draco/a doll that looks like Ginny  
> Warnings: Language, slight exhibitionism, masturbation  
> Word Count: 5235  
> Notes: This prompt was fun, interesting, and only slightly skeevy for me. I'm so glad I went with my gut on this. I hope it does exactly what it was supposed to do. Much thanks to auntlynnie for being my beta for this. I struggle with that British voice! Please enjoy under the cut.

He wasn’t going to pretend that the first time he saw her, the angels came down from heaven, trumpets blaring, and he finally understood those shite love songs. They met too young, too involved in family and war and survival. He used to hate her. Mostly on principle, really. She was a Weasley, he was a Malfoy, it’s just the way things were.

But a war changes people in more ways than anyone could imagine. For Draco, it meant losing his father to Azkaban and his mother to the Caribbean. Not that he begrudged her abandonment; it was actually his idea. It also meant losing his stature, his inheritance, and his purpose. Being raised in a family in the servitude of a Dark Lord didn’t necessarily give you much hope for any sort of future or drive for a career. His mother would never had said it to him, but he knew he should have died in the war. Miraculously, he hadn’t. Somehow, he and his mother had been given pardons for their heroic support of one Harry Potter. Nevermind that it had almost come too little too late. The ministry was in shambles attempting to fix the pervasive corruption that had been there even before the war and rounding up Voldemort’s supporters to care very much about the barely-innocent survivors. 

After the war, he took to drinking, much like everyone else. For at least a year or two, very few were ready to start rebuilding their entire world. Bars, nightclubs, strip joints, and whorehouses were heavily frequented on a daily basis. Everyone wanted to forget or numb the pain or pretend to be happy in any way they could. Draco’s schoolmates were there with him for a time, but one by one they began to pick themselves up and carry on. 

Pansy got involved in orphanages and volunteer work, only because she never had and she was determined to look into the dark crevices of society. Blaise became an attorney, unable to give up his cushioned life of luxury. They all still lunched and shopped together occasionally. They would go on about an exciting love affair they were involved in or a particularly interesting day at work. For the most part, Draco didn’t really care. He was happy that his friends were happy, but he was completely content to live off what little savings he had left by spending it on booze and women. They both tried to coax him into a job here or a formal get-together there, and Draco would shrug them off. But he knew there was a problem when, after his tenth time of showing up late and hungover to a lunch date with Blaise, the man sighed and told him to grow up. It was a shock to his system, to be sure. 

About a week later, Blaise had pulled some strings and gotten him a typical, boring, cubicle ministry job. He was displeased, to say the least, but slightly less empty. Of course he had to endure the pointed looks and whispers around every corner. 

_“Did you say Draco Malfoy?”_

_“Yes, in that cubicle over there!”_

_“I guess being a snob doesn’t pay the bills, eh?”_

_“He looks like hell.”_

_“His father is still doing time…”_

_“Abandoned by his mother, the poor dear.”_

Honestly, the snide remarks and distrust was better than the pity. Once everyone got used to having him around, he noticed more and more of his coworkers attempting polite conversation. Sometimes they would invite him out for a pint after hours, or to a favoured lunch spot, or offer some help on his piles of paperwork. The bubbly woman with short, curly hair and bright red cheeks decided to take him under her wing, so to speak, and often brought him plates of biscuits or pies from home, remarking on his lack of body fat or wedding band. He didn’t even have the will to be offended or disgusted and ate the damned baked goods every time. 

He was bored. He was stable. He had an income, a semi-furnished flat, a regular bar that didn’t come equipped with a line of prostitutes in front. He didn’t care enough to hate it, not that he was sure he really would. Maybe that’s why he finally allowed Pansy and Blaise to drag him to one of those ministry charity events. He was comfortable, he supposed, and he moved along with the motions of everyone around him. This was what he was supposed to be doing, right?

That’s what he told himself as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror adjusting his semi-formal dress robes. It wasn’t a full-length mirror, but he had, in a fit of rage or something, managed to give it a tilt that allowed him to see about to his knees. Pansy was lounging in his bathtub beside him while Blaise leaned against the wall right outside, clicking something metallic. 

“Pansy, I’m just about ready. Don’t you think you should get out of my bathroom and stop being naked?” Draco drawled. 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that before,” she retorted, giving a pout before standing up and extending her hand towards him. 

He threw her a towel and went back to running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t really do much with it these days. It had darkened to an almost honey blonde and fell in fashionable shaggy layers to his chin. At least that’s what he told himself. He was just too lazy to get his hair cut or do it himself, and he was much beyond the phase of lightening it. 

Blaise sighed and helped Pansy into her dress. They bickered sweetly to each other, then turned their attention to Draco.

“Your hair is atrocious,” Pansy said.

“Your robes are out of season,” Blaise commented. 

They patted his head patronisingly, then grabbed one of his hands each. They Apparated in front of a large, white house with pillars and roaming gardens and a front gate with a guard. Blaise walked over to the man and handed him their invitations. The gate opened presently and they moved toward the house together. 

“We’re not early, are we dear? I hate showing up to these things before anyone else has arrived,” Pansy said.

“I doubt it. The invitation said 8:00, it’s almost 8:30 now,” Blaise replied.

The doors opened for them and let loose the sounds of over a hundred witches and wizards chatting, a live jazz band, and the clinking of glasses. 

“Good evening, Mr. Zabini, Miss Parkinson, Mr. Malfoy,” a voice sounded just above the door, “Please leave your coats and scarves at our check-in desk and receive your table placement.”

They walked into the bright, lively room and found the check-in desk. Draco was pleased to find that they had been assigned to the same table, as he did not want to be stuck sitting with people he didn’t have anything to say to. They made their way through the tables, stopping every few meters for Blaise and Pansy to shake hands with someone. They found their seats and Draco looked down to find a blank card sitting on his plate. He watched as a simple charm began writing his name in beautiful calligraphy upon the card. He smiled softly - his mother had always used that charm to give just the right touch to any large gathering. 

“Mr. Zabini, Ms. Parkinson, good to see you two again, looking as charming as ever. Who is your guest?”

Draco was jolted from his reverie into proper manners as two couples sat down at the table with them. His eyes locked onto Harry Potter’s and he blinked slowly, waiting for recognition to hit. 

“Draco Malfoy, of course. We hardly ever see you at these functions,” Harry said breezily, offering a hand.

Draco took it with a nod, noting that the years of being dragged around to things like this had finally given the man some manners and the ability to speak like a normal fucking person. 

“Mr. Potter. How have you been?” He asked, almost feeling genuine curiosity. 

“Fine, thanks. One boy already off to Hogwarts this year, the next soon to follow. Ginny and I couldn’t be prouder of him - sorted into Gryffindor, of course,” Harry said.

Draco tried not to roll his eyes as he glanced away from Harry into the eyes of his wife. If he had not been sitting, surely he would have fallen straight to the floor. Harry chattered on about his probably obnoxious son’s accomplishments as Draco tried to remember how to breathe. 

This couldn’t possibly be the same tiny, skinny, freckled Weasley that he had teased and ridiculed in school. She was stunning, to say the least. In a silken, halter-style purple dress, with flowing, thick red hair, she looked like one of those dangerous drinks from the bar that tasted like dark chocolates and fruit and knocked you on your arse. Draco’s eyes skimmed neatly across her face, almost feeling the contours of her nose and cheeks and chin, down to the base of her throat where there lay a simple, elegant pendant that attempted to distract from her barely peeking cleavage. Freckles still lay scattered across her chest and shoulders, and Draco had a flashing image of where there may be more freckles. In the short seconds it took for him to peruse her, she had shifted uncomfortably in her chair and had begun tapping her manicured nails on the tabletop. 

“...So, naturally, I marched down there myself to find the little bugger. Turns out he had been in the kitchen the whole time, sleeping off a sugar coma,” Draco returned to hear the end of Potter’s prattling and smiled appropriately. He glanced up for a second to look back at Ginny to see her watching him. She didn’t seem angry or inviting, mostly just bored. 

“Harry, you really ought to be punishing your son more severely when he acts up like that,” said one Hermione Granger, or Weasley now, sitting just on the other side of Ginny. 

Harry responded with a flippant wave of his hand and Ginny shook her head slightly, staring off into space.

“Mrs. Weasley, how are you? Have you popped into that potions shop I was telling you about?” Pansy asked excitedly. 

Draco barely heard the woman’s answer. He glanced over at his friends, watching them talk and laugh with these members of apparently high society and wryly wondered at how the world had turned upside down. Growing up was a ridiculous thing, really. 

Someone on the stage clinked their glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention. Probably the host for the evening, Draco thought. 

“I would like to take a moment to thank everyone for coming. Before we begin our meal, I would like to say a few words about what a tremendous difference you all are bringing to our refugee witches and wizards in all four corners of the world,” he paused for the applause and Draco realized he had not the faintest clue as to what organization they were even supporting tonight.

The man continued to talk for a few minutes about the devastation of the wizarding war on neighbouring countries and the good work this money would do for those without shelter or family. He went on to explain about an upcoming project that would help witches and wizards that were involved or hurt by recent natural disasters and Muggle wars that had been raging for a few years as well. 

“I would also like to have our guests of honour, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, to come share a few words about Project FEAST.” The crowd applauded and whooped as Harry and Ginny graciously made their way to the stage. 

Harry took to making his speech easily, and talked about God-knows-what as the rest of the audience listened in rapture. Draco kept his eyes fixed on Potter’s wife, wondering and fantasising and probably drooling all over himself at her visage. 

Harry finished his speech and Ginny stepped forward. 

“Thank you all for coming tonight. We are so pleased to have such wonderful support from friends, family, and some of the very best in wizarding society. The war within our own borders might be over, but the struggle continues for many around the world. It is our goal to help as many people as we can in order to leave the darkest days behind us.”

It was a prepared speech, no doubt, and while Draco can only presume that Ginny probably does, in fact, care about the struggles of wizards due to various wars, he could easily see that she would rather be anywhere in the world than up on that stage. He almost pitied her, before Harry reached out to slide an arm around her waist and place a chaste kiss on her cheek. Draco shook his head, trying to make his visions and fantasies disappear. He turned to his friends and tried not to be surprised when they were staring at him with disapproving looks. 

\---

“She’s married.”

“To Harry bloody Potter.”

“She’s got kids.”

“Not to mention, she’s way out of your league.”

They were at the bar. Everyone was either dancing to the band or sitting at tables talking. Draco finished his scotch and grimaced, looking back at his friends with a raised eyebrow.

“Who said anything about married women?”

They sighed and looked back over to the Potters. Draco followed their gaze and watched as Ginny chatted with Granger. 

“You can’t stop staring at her. God, it’s like you’ve never seen a woman before, Draco,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes.

That night, Draco tried to forget about the way the light seemed to echo off her skin and send pulsing waves of life towards him. He tried to forget about how her hair looked softer than feathers, yet thick enough to drown him if he tried to lean in to catch its scent. He tried to forget about her clockwork eyes, measuring everyone and dismissing them all like a queen perusing her court of jesters. He especially tried to forget the sound of her passionate voice whipping around her vowels and ringing like rusted, desperate bells. 

It was, of course, of no use. He imagined her in everyday activities while he muddled through his work; cleaning up a spilled mess, chatting with friends, eating lunch, dancing slowly to no music. At night, he dreamed of her climbing mountains, fighting imagined wars on the backs of dragons, claiming him as her own, shredding him apart like a flimsy tissue to find out if his pettiness really was only skin-deep. Though his dreams could hardly be considered erotic, he regularly woke with either a hard-on or covered in his own cum with tears streaming down his face. 

\---

Blaise and Pansy teased him mercilessly about his “crush”, while also keeping a conspicuously inconspicuous eye on him. Whether they were worried he would fall into madness entirely or do something drastic, neither were sure. 

“Darling, I have excellent contacts that could make this whole obsession completely disappear. Please let me set you up with a friend or a whore. Anything, really.”

The three of them were lounging at Blaise’s fashionable leather-and-windows flat that gave a view to practically all of London. Draco was on scotch number three (he thought) and staring off into space. Pansy was laid across his lap in one of Blaise’s shirts looking through some sort of catalogue. Blaise was shuffling papers around on his desk to give off an air of being hard at work. 

“I don’t need a shag, Blaise. I need…” Draco stopped short. 

He really wasn’t even sure. Some days it felt like he would positively die if he didn’t slam that woman up against a wall and please her until she was the wet, sobbing mess that he was. Other days, he felt as though he would probably collapse if he ever saw her again. 

“You know things are bad when Draco Malfoy says he doesn’t need a shag. Try to put her out of your mind, dear. Please, for the love of Merlin, put down your drink and help me find an appropriate doll for the Weasley brat,” Pansy said in a huff. 

Draco looked down to finally acknowledge the catalogue Pansy was thumbing through. It was, indeed, completely full of different models of dolls of every shape, size, and colour. Some seemed to be marketed for young girls, while others looked like they could be showcased in a collector’s glass box. 

“Why are you getting a doll for a child you don’t interact with?” He asked bemusedly. Pansy gave him a strange look. 

“I have regular tea dates with the Weasley couple. And their kids love me,” she said matter-of-factly. 

Blaise snorted from across the room. 

“Well, I like Hermione. She’s actually divine. She’s invited me to her daughter’s upcoming birthday party, and I want to bring the girl a proper enchanted doll because the woman insists on making her play with muggle toys.” Pansy explained. 

Draco snatched the catalogue from her grasp and began to flip through it quickly. 

“What’s so enchanting about these dolls, anyway?” He asked. They seemed perfectly normal to him, though exquisitely crafted. Porcelain, horse hair, blushed cheeks, lace and frills, petite and perfect. 

“These are the base models, but of course you can ask Madame Reisuoi to customise any aspect of the doll to your request. They also walk, talk, and remember anything you tell them. Perfect for a little girl in a house full of boys.”

Draco nodded, barely listening to the answer to his question, before stopping dead on a page. Between two beautiful models was a doll that made his mouth dry and his head start to spin. It was the spitting image of Ginny Weasley. Pale skin with scattered freckles, long red hair, slender wrists, arching, barely-there eyebrows, firm lips and alluring green eyes. His imagination started to get away from him. He pictured himself holding the doll in front of him and stroking the cool cheeks, tracing the moulded collarbones, unbuttoning the pretty fur coat inch by inch…

His cheeks started to burn, his heart was racing. He quickly pointed to a random doll on the next page and told Pansy it was perfect for little whats-her-name. He flipped to the cover to make a mental note of the designer’s name. As Pansy and Blaise joked and chatted about the doll and birthday parties, Draco’s mind was days away. 

That night, he wrote a quick letter with an attached photo ripped from a newspaper clipping that he had been hiding under his pillow and sent it by owl. After watching it disappear into the darkness, he returned to his bed and closed his eyes, his mind quickly flashing between already fading memories of her and the fantasies featuring a pale, cold face with unblinking, perfect eyes. He stroked himself through his pants and came quickly, alternately fighting the urge to scream and relishing the release of his vocal cords. 

The following week was near hell for Draco. He waited anxiously for a reply from the doll-maker, torturing himself with fantasies and berating himself in his own mind for even going through with it all. He worried about silly things that shouldn’t have worried him. What if Madame no longer altered dolls? What if Madame recognized Ginny’s portrait and called him out? What if she refused his business and went straight to the Prophet with the story of a lifetime: “Draco Malfoy Requests Doll in Likeness of The Saviour’s Wife”?

With each passing day, he began to long more for the doll than for the woman herself. Maybe because one was more obtainable than the other. Maybe seeing it in that catalogue had awoken something deep and terrifying inside of Draco, something he was alternately ready to explore and terrified to witness. 

He received a response that Sunday. It was brief, consisting mostly of an invoice. She agreed to his specific requirements and privacy, and stated that she had already begun the construction and to allow for 5-8 business days for the results. He would have to come to her shop to acquire the finished product. His heart eased and he felt himself breathe a sigh of relief. It was nearly done. He only had to wait another week. After all this time, he could wait one more week.

\---

Madame Reisuoi’s Classic Figurine Emporium was tucked into a corner of Diagon Alley smashed between an independent Wizard National Bank and a Dragon O’s - a pipe tobacco shop. It looked older than Gringotts and completely unassuming. Draco supposed that the Madame didn’t care to advertise with flash and relied heavily on her subscription catalogues and word of mouth for new business. It honestly couldn’t have been a better situation, Draco mused. Casting a furtive look around the deserted area, he walked quickly toward the shop. 

The stoop was dark and damp. A sign on the window read “Consultation and Alterations by Appointment Only. Please ring bell for service.” Draco looked around once more and rubbed his hands together, though he barely felt a chill. Cautiously, he reached up and rang the bell. The door opened immediately on its own. Draco cleared his throat as he stepped into the candle-lit room. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting from this woman. She must be old, of course, to have such an old shop. 

“Hello?” he called out into the cluttered shop. 

He peered around and saw only empty shelves. For a moment, he was worried this was all an elaborate ploy. He made a step towards the door.

“Oh geez, I’m so sorry. Those wards are getting old. I’ll have to replace them sooner or later. You must be Mr. Malfoy,” said the woman he presumed to be Madame Reisuoi. 

The young woman standing in front of him couldn’t possibly hold such a title, however. She was small and as unassuming as the shop itself. Dark, mousy hair atop a slightly blemished face with large glasses that seemed to actually shrink the size of her eyes, with simple, black robes reminiscent of his school uniform. He frowned at the sight of her, confused.

“Madame…?” He asked. 

“Oh, dear no. Madame Reisuoi is my great-aunt. She would like to leave the shop to me one day, so I come by a lot to help out. You are Mr. Malfoy, correct?” She asked, closing the door with a flick of her wand. 

Draco held out a hand in greeting and confirmed his identity. 

“Is she - _it_ \- ready?” he stammered. 

The woman giggled unattractively. 

“She most certainly is. Come, follow me,” she turned abruptly and headed down a long corridor attached to the corner of the room. 

Draco followed silently in anticipation. She led him into a brighter room with loads of complicated machinery. Some of it seemed to be looms for crafting the clothing for the dolls. Everything was running magically, but Draco wondered how much energy it would consume to keep them running all day long. 

“Over here,” she called across the room. 

Draco spun around and saw a little wooden trunk standing tall with a clasp in the middle. The wood was distressed and painted green and brandished a leather handle bolted to the top of the case. His heart began hammering. This was it, he thought. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to proceed. 

“Can I see her?” He asked, his voice coming out a little softer than usual. 

The woman smiled and, without commentary, unhooked the clasp and opened the trunk one side at a time. 

“She” stood a little over half a meter tall encased in the middle compartment of the box, lined with black satin. Her head was cocked slightly to the left, causing her arched eyebrows and stony expression to come across as sarcastic. Her hair was gorgeous and looked as though it would taste like cherries and wine. She had a slight blush on her cheekbones, but her skin was pale and lightly dusted with freckles, as though the earth had rained its essence onto her. Two fragile hands thrust out from the sleeves of the fur coat she wore with delicate creases painted on. Draco realized quickly that he hadn’t said anything for a few moments. He cleared his throat and nodded to the woman. 

“She’s perfect.”

\---

He couldn’t get home quickly enough. He Apparated to his usual hidden area and hurried to his flat. Once inside, he took the box and headed for the bedroom. For one wild moment, he wondered if he was taking things too quickly. He chuckled darkly and decided he was most definitely too giddy.

He laid the box upon his bed with a sort of reverence. For a moment, he was back in the shop - unsure what to do. He poured himself a drink from his bedside decanter and finished it in one gulp. Still staring at the box, he loosened his tie and felt a blush creeping up from his neck. 

He reached forward and unclasped the hook to open the box from its middle crease. The first thing he saw was dark brown fur, a pale hand, and red hair. He took a deep breath before opening the box completely. She lay there, only slightly jumbled from the trip home. Her hair had fallen into her eyes and he moved forward to brush it aside. His fingers grazed the light eyelashes and cool, smooth, skin and he could feel himself getting hard. 

Her still, walnut-coloured eyes seemed to contain a million, sparkling galaxies. For a moment, the lights within seemed to move around her pupils. In the back of his mind, he thought maybe the doll was watching him. Madame had certainly exceeded his expectations.

He lifted her carefully out of the compartment and laid her head on his pillow, moving everything else to the floor. He unbuttoned the chunky button at the top of her coat and gently began to peel away the layer. She wore a gauzy button-up shirt underneath which allowed Draco to see the curve of her breasts and ribs leading down to her hips. His heart hammering in his chest, he quickly rid her of the rest of her clothing.

Freckles continued down the rest of her in no particular order, like a smattering of light brown stars. Her breasts jutted up and out naturally, allowing him to trace a finger directly from the hollow of her throat to her dimpled belly button. Her hips were full and luscious, followed by dainty yet powerful legs. Draco could see and feel the contours of the musculature along her thighs leading down to her cute, slender ankles. Every curve was perfect, every angle unique, every inch _just so_.

Draco had never gazed upon something as glorious as her. Her very inspiration had all but faded from his memories. He vaguely noticed himself trembling as his eyes slid over his precious possession. 

“How beautiful you are,” he said aloud. 

It didn’t seem strange to say it. To feel it. She was a beautiful creation, and she belonged to him completely. 

His erection strained against the fabric of his trousers, begging to be released. Draco stood and quickly disrobed, keeping his eyes firmly on _her_. Gooseflesh spread across his flushed skin as he again thought she might be watching him as well. As he climbed back onto the bed next to her, her head cocked slightly to the side, giving her a coy, curious air. It was too much for Draco. He reached down and began stroking himself as he reached another hand out to softly caress her face, trailing lightly down her neck and shoulders to her tiny hands. _Her tiny hands…_

Draco stopped touching himself and lifted himself closer to the doll. For a moment, he hesitated. He felt himself standing on the precipice - past this point would be no return. So much had already happened, he felt, but he had yet to take it far enough: far enough to discover just how much this fixation extended. Far enough to find out just how much into deep shite he really might be. Far enough to really discover the dusty corners of his passions. 

He slowly leaned forward and lifted the doll’s arm to meet his erection. The delicate, tiny, hard, cool porcelain hand looked that much smaller when touching him. His breathing increased and he guided the doll’s hand up and down his shaft, curling his own hand around it as well. 

It was exhilarating, to say the least. It wasn’t like anything he had ever felt or experienced before. It was a far cry from a hot, wet mouth or any number of tight holes, of course. But something about the act itself spurred Draco to move faster and faster, sweating and moaning as he stared deep into those glassy galaxy eyes. He felt dirty, secretive, perverse. He felt ashamed, like he had something terrible to hide. And he had never felt more alive. 

In a rush of excitement, Draco straddled the doll and let his erection sit in that perfect indentation between her breasts. It felt like heaven. The image of it sitting there, making her look so small as she sat so still and perfect _watching him_ caused him to throw his head back, bite his lip, and arch his back until the tip of his penis grazed her chin. 

“Fuck! My sweet, my girl, my darling. You look so perfect. You’ll always be perfect for me, won’t you?” He began to babble. 

He couldn’t help it. His whole body was shaking, his blood pounded in his ears and through him, his own panting was like music to his ears. 

He guided both of her hands to his penis and held them there only by her elbows as he thrust, quick and shallow. He moaned as he watched himself manipulate her into pleasing him. It was the most satisfying, rewarding sight he had ever seen. 

He felt a familiar tightening in his gut and balls. His cheeks felt hot, his movements became more erratic and he bumped her chin with almost every thrust. He made desperate noises in the back of his throat, closed his eyes, and waited for that final, perfect release. 

His eyes snapped back open when he suddenly realized he did not want to mar her beautiful face. Even as he felt his orgasm building quickly and hated to disrupt that momentum, he hesitated, causing his movements to stutter. He watched in slow motion as his cock, now barely leaking with precome, slipped up over the doll’s chin and rested for a split second on her perfectly puckered, ruby red lips. A single drop escaped the tip and landed glistening on her lower lip. Draco pulled back as far as he could and buried his penis into the folds of his comforter, crying out as he came violently. 

His nose was touching the tip of her nose, and as every neuron in his body was lit with electricity, every muscle clenched, and waves of pleasure crashed over his screaming mind, his panting breath fogged up her glassy eyes. 

“My perfect, gorgeous girl…”


End file.
